by M C Beaton
‘Oh, all’s right and tight, lady. No wind. Can’t move when there’s wind.’
Hannah sniffed and pulled her nose. Outside the leaded panes of the window lay a winter’s scene. Snow sparkled on roads and roofs, lending beauty to the inn and to a jumble of Tudor houses. It would be pleasant, thought Hannah, to stay where they were and enjoy the view and wait until the snow stopped falling.
Dinner was served, a heavy inn dinner of roast beef, game pies, trifles and fruit. Hannah and Belinda drank lemonade, but Hannah noticed that Miss Wimple was drinking fortified wine, occasionally giving her lips genteel dabs with a lace handkerchief.
Reluctantly they all filed out again. Mr Judd was once more bullying his wife and she was doing everything she could to placate his temper, which, of course, only made it worse.
She should stand up to him, thought Hannah. It is that cringing, fluttering manner of hers. Such a manner brings out the beast in men. She remembered a chambermaid, Lucy, a shy, fair, pretty, fluffy girl. But she had had the same air as Mrs Judd and the butler was always shouting at her and the footmen seemed to delight in making her cry; even the lamp-boy put a dead rat in her bed. She was one of life’s natural-born victims. Hannah, tired of fighting Lucy’s battles, had found her work in the home of an elderly lady renowned for the sweetness of her temper.
But when she had called on Lucy on one of her rare days off, it was to find the girl red-eyed and broken in spirit. She said the other servants tormented her and her mistress shouted at her.
Hannah shook her head over the memory. It was amazing how fear encouraged bullying, as if the human race could smell it, like dogs.
‘Do you read romances?’ Belinda asked Hannah.
‘No, I do not,’ said Hannah roundly. ‘A great deal of pernicious rubbish.’
Miss Wimple gave her an approving smile.
‘Because,’ went on Hannah and lost Miss Wimple’s favour, ‘what goes on in real life is more weird and wonderful than any romance.’
‘How so?’ asked Belinda, sensing a story.
Hannah settled her head comfortably against the squabs. ‘Two miles out of Reading and on the right of the road’, she said, ‘is Calcott House. It was the home of Miss Kendrick, a rich and whimsical lady. There is a poem about this adventure, but I can only remember scraps of it. In any case, this Miss Kendrick had received many offers, all of which she refused, and it was reported she hated all men, when one day,
Being at a noble wedding
In the famous town of Reading,
A young gentleman she saw
Who belonged to the law.
‘The young gentleman was Benjamin Child, Esquire. To him Miss Kendrick sent a challenge to a duel in Calcott Park. She did not assign any cause why Child – if such should prove to be his lot – should be skewered like a chicken. The barrister took the challenge seriously and turned up on the duelling ground, sword in hand. He found Miss Kendrick masked and waiting for him, also with a sword in her hand.
“So now take your chance,” says she,
“Either fight or marry me.”
Said he, “Madam, pray what mean ye?
In my life, I ne’er have seen ye.”
‘In fact, he suggested point-blank that she should unmask, not, perhaps, caring to take a pig in a poke. The lady, however, remained firm and incognito, when the intrepid Child, perhaps fortified with a view of the imposing Calcott House rising above the trees, told the lady he preferred to wed her rather than try her skill. Upon which, in the twinkling of an eye, he found himself
Clothed in rich attire,
Not inferior to a squire
– in fact, master of Calcott. And that all happened in 1712, less than an hundred years ago.’
‘I would think you were making it all up,’ said Belinda, ‘except that the poetry is so bad. There is something so honest and worthy-sounding about bad poetry.’
‘What is wrong?’ asked Hannah sharply. Mrs Judd had begun to sob.
‘Cease your caterwauling this instant,’ snapped her husband.
‘I h-have a p-premonition of disaster,’ sobbed Mrs Judd.
‘Fiddlesticks!’ said Hannah, finding to her horror that she, too, was capable of being nasty to the inoffensive Mrs Judd.
‘Well, I feel it. Here!’
She touched the region of her heart.
At that moment, the pace of the coach began to quicken. Hannah drew aside the red leather curtains, which she had drawn to shut out the vista of bleak snow. The snow was still falling thickly, but the horses were moving at a great rate.
She let down the window and, leaning out as far as she could, screwed up her eyes and tried to make out what was happening on the box. The coachman was hunched up, and with a sudden jolt of alarm Hannah noticed the reins had slipped from his hands.
‘The coachman has fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘Someone has got to rouse him, or the guard.’
Mrs Judd screamed with alarm. Mr Judd opened his window and began to shout to the guard. The guard shouted something back and Mr Judd roared that the coachman had fallen asleep. They heard a thump on the roof as the guard moved from his seat at the back to join the coachman on the box.
Hannah hung out of the window again. The snow thinned slightly and she saw a curve of the road ahead.
Right across it, blocking the road, stood a hay wagon. She put up the window. ‘We are for it!’ she shouted. ‘Down in the straw!’ And Hannah crouched down on the floor of the carriage just as the coach swung off the road. They were thrown right and left. There were cries and sobs and swears and then the coach seemed to take flight. There was a short moment of silence and then, with an almighty crash, the whole coach landed in a river.
The Marquess of Frenton was riding along the marches of his estate. Despite the weather and the time of year, he considered it his duty to see that his property was not being neglected and that the high stone walls that bound the park had not been breached by either animals or humans.
He would not admit to himself that the real reason for the expedition was because of his house guests. With a view to choosing a bride, he had invited Miss Penelope Jordan and her parents, Sir Henry and Lady Jordan, to stay. He had danced with pretty Penelope several times during the Little Season in London. She was a stately brunette with cool, calm, chiselled features and moved with great elegance. She was very, very rich, or rather, her parents were, which meant she would come with a good dowry. Some element of caution had prompted him to invite other house guests so as to make his motives not seem too obvious until he had fully made up his mind. But the other guests had not arrived, being stopped from travelling by the hard weather. It was not that he really had found Penelope any less suitable. The marquess was a fastidious man. He found her as elegant and well bred as ever. It was her parents’ assumption that the knot was as good as tied that grated on him.
The marquess’s late father had been a noisy, spend-thrift gambler and drunk. His mother’s last words as she had followed her husband to the grave some four weeks later had been, ‘Do not blame your father, my son. Men were ever thus.’
So the marquess at the age of twenty had found himself saddled with monstrous debts and a near ruin of a castle. He had worked hard and long, experimenting with new farming methods, taking what little capital he had and using it carefully on the stock exchange. The hostilities with the French had brought about a rise in the price of wheat, and slowly his fortunes began to turn. Now, at the age of thirty-four, he was a very wealthy man. His estates and farms were the envy of all less hard-working landowners. He had restored his ancestral home, Baddell Castle, to its long-forgotten glory. He loved fine statuary and fine paintings and the most delicate of china. His idea of a wife was someone who would grace his home like a work of art.
Hard physical labour in his younger years, combined with a fastidious mind, had kept the more rampant lusts at bay. He had begun briefly to take pleasure when it was offered by, say, some fashionable widow at the London Season who kn
ew very well what she was doing and did not have a heart to break. Succumbing to broken hearts, the marquess’s observations had led him to believe, was something females were prone to do.
He was a tall man with a trim waist, square shoulders, and a lithe, athletic figure. He wore his hair powdered and confined at the nape of his neck with a ribbon. His face was high-nosed and rather stern and he had silvery-grey eyes that usually did not reflect what he was thinking.
He came to a wooded close overlooking the river Thrane that bordered his land. To his amazement, he saw a stage-coach coming down the opposite bank. A little guard was on the back of one of the horses and was hacking the traces free. The team of horses swerved right, clear of the careening coach. The coach wheels struck an outjutting ledge of rock. For one horrifying moment it sailed clear off the ledge and seemed to hang in the snowy air. And then it plunged straight down into the icy stretch of the river.
He dismounted and hurried down the bank, slithering and sliding until he reached the river. He sat down, pulled off his top-boots, and shrugged off his long black cloak, then waded into the icy torrent.
The carriage door swung open and a middle-aged lady with a rather crooked nose looked at him first in surprise and then relief.
‘I see I shall not have to swim for it,’ she said. ‘The torrent seems shallow enough.’
The marquess made his way with difficulty to the coach and hung on to the open door. ‘Climb on my back,’ he ordered, ‘and I will carry you to safety.’
‘There is a lady here who is hurt,’ said Hannah, for it was she. ‘Take her first.’
‘Very well,’ said the marquess in a voice as cold and uncaring as the winter landscape. ‘But be quick about it.’
‘Help me,’ said Hannah to Belinda as she stooped over Miss Wimple. That lady’s face was an ugly colour and she had a great gash on her forehead.
They heaved and pushed at the inert Miss Wimple. ‘Of what use are you?’ cried Hannah furiously over her shoulder to Mr Judd, who was sitting on the floor of the coach.
‘My wife has fainted,’ he said sulkily.
‘Pah!’ retorted Hannah. ‘Does such a little thing paralyse you? Had the coach not landed upright, we might all have been drowned.’
The marquess leaned into the carriage and managed to lift Miss Wimple in his arms. Hannah watched in admiration as he carried her easily to the bank and laid her down. Soon he was back again. By this time, Hannah had found her smelling salts. She held the bottle under Mrs Judd’s nose and then slapped her face. ‘Leave her alone,’ cried Mr Judd, struggling to his feet.
‘Then get you out of the carriage and carry your own wife to safety instead of letting that fine gentleman do all the work.’
Mr Judd looked weakly out of the door at the raging river. There was a moan behind him as his wife recovered from her faint.
‘Now get down in the river,’ commanded Hannah. ‘No, sir,’ she said to the marquess, ‘stand aside. There is no reason why this gentleman cannot carry his own wife.’
Mr Judd dropped down into the river, lost his footing and fell into the water. The marquess swore and jerked him upright.
He backed up to the coach and his wife climbed on his back. She showed every sign of fainting again but was fully recovered to consciousness when her husband stumbled and tipped her into the river. The marquess fished her out and placed her on the bank next to Miss Wimple.
He turned around and saw with surprise that the middle-aged lady was crossing the river with a young girl on her back. He ran to help her.
‘Shame on you,’ he said to Belinda, ‘to use this lady as a pack-horse.’
‘I cannot stand on my ankle, sir,’ said Belinda wrathfully. ‘Do put me down, Miss Pym.’
The marquess drew on his boots and swung his cloak around his shoulders. He looked across the river. The guard and the coachman, who had been thrown clear, were leading the horses back up on to the road. The guard cupped his hands. ‘Going to get help!’ he shouted.
‘Which means,’ said Hannah, ‘they are going to get drunk as soon as possible and forget all about us. That coachman was much too young for the job.’
The marquess stooped and lifted Miss Wimple in his arms. ‘If the rest of you can make your way up the bank into the shelter of the trees, you may wait there until I bring carriages to bear you to safety. There is a road quite near.’
Hannah hitched Belinda’s arm about her neck, Mr Judd helped his wife, and they all stumbled up the bank.
Once more Miss Wimple was laid down. The marquess mounted a great black horse and rode off.
‘My clothes are freezing to me,’ whispered Mrs Judd. ‘I’m going to die and I know it.’
‘Whoever that grand gentleman is, he is very competent,’ said Hannah. ‘We must all try to keep warm. We must walk up and down and stamp our feet and swing our arms and take turns at rubbing some warmth into Miss Wimple’s limbs. Come along, everyone.’
Miss Pym was rather like a general, thought Belinda, amused despite her predicament, as Hannah beat her arms and stamped her feet and then knelt beside Miss Wimple and chafed her wrists.
After only a short time they heard the shouting of voices and rattling of wheels. Torches flickered through the trees, and then four men in outdoor livery appeared, followed by the marquess. Under his orders, two of them lifted Miss Wimple on to a stretcher and bore her off, one supported Belinda, and the other Mrs Judd.
‘I have carriages waiting,’ said the marquess to Hannah. ‘Come quickly or you will catch the ague.’
As he bustled about, seeing them all into carriages, the marquess felt a momentary qualm. He should really have them driven to the nearest inn rather than inflict the passengers of the common stage on his guests. But their presence would give him a necessary breathing space, a wall to retreat behind while he considered his feelings for Penelope.
Hannah helped Belinda into one of the waiting carriages. She admired this lord, or whoever he was, immensely. He must have his staff well drilled to turn out so efficiently and promptly on a freezing night. She gave a happy smile and drew a huge bearskin rug up to her chin.
‘Why, Miss Pym,’ exclaimed Belinda, ‘I declare you are actually enjoying a near escape from a freezing death.’
‘It’s an adventure,’ said Hannah. ‘Now, you see, my dear, it is better to look for romance in real life. Did you note how handsome our rescuer was?’
‘I was too flustered and frightened and my ankle still hurts dreadfully,’ said Belinda. ‘He seemed very autocratic and severe and quite old. Where are we, I wonder?’
‘I have a guidebook in my luggage,’ said Hannah. ‘Oh, dear, that wretched coachman has gone off with it.’
‘Not he,’ said Belinda. ‘It had all fallen off the roof before we even hit the river and was strewn about the opposite bank.’
‘Then our highly efficient host will collect it for us. We are travelling quite a way. Does he mean to deposit us all at some wayside inn?’
‘No doubt.’ Belinda shivered. ‘I must get a physician immediately to look to poor Miss Wimple. How came she to gash her forehead like that?’
‘I think she was thrown against the lamp bracket. How luxurious all this is, and what a great many servants there seem to be.’
Outriders with flaming torches were riding alongside the carriages.
‘We are slowing,’ exclaimed Hannah. To the shivering Belinda’s dismay, she let down the glass and leaned out. ‘Oh, Miss Earle!’ cried Hannah. ‘You have never seen the like.’
Curiosity overcoming cold, Belinda opened her window and, clutching the edge for support to ease her tortured ankle, she too leaned out.
The snow had stopped falling. In the lights of the many torches and carriage lamps a great Norman castle loomed up against the sky; battlements and barbican, towers and turrets. They rolled slowly over a wooden drawbridge and under two raised portcullises into a wide courtyard.
‘Why have I never heard of this place?’ said Hannah, sitti
ng down again. ‘It is huge.’
‘Have you visited many places?’ asked Belinda.
Hannah shook her head. ‘I have led a quiet and sheltered life, like that of a nun. But I have read a great deal, don’t you see.’
The carriage rolled to a stop. A footman in green-and-gold livery let down the steps and Hannah and Belinda were assisted down.
The shivering stage-coach passengers were led into the castle and all stood blinking in the sudden blaze of light. They found themselves in a great hall with a brown-and-white marble floor. A long refectory table with high-backed Jacobean chairs around it dominated the centre of the hall. There were battle flags and suits of armour and a long gallery running around the top of the hall to form an upper storey.
A house steward with his tall staff of office stood waiting.
‘Convey our unexpected guests to the East Wing,’ said the marquess. ‘Send for the physician to attend us immediately. May I introduce myself? I am Frenton, the Marquess of Frenton, and you are now in my home, Baddell Castle, where I suggest you stay until I find out what has become of your coach. You are …?’
Hannah stepped forward. ‘I am Miss Hannah Pym of Kensington. May I present Miss Belinda Earle. Miss Wimple is the injured lady and Miss Earle’s companion. Also, may I present Mr and Mrs Judd.’
The marquess turned to his steward and rapped out a bewildering, to Belinda, series of orders about which apartments were to be allotted to them.
Again, there were servants everywhere. Belinda clung nervously to Hannah, overawed by the magnificence of it all. They went up a broad staircase and along a bewildering multitude of passages. A housekeeper opened a door at last and said to Hannah, ‘Your apartments are here, madam.’ Oh, the joy of ex-housekeeper Hannah to hear herself called ‘madam’ by one of her own kind. ‘You have a bedchamber as you go in and you will share a sitting-room with the young lady, who has a bedchamber on the other side. His lordship is sending up your trunks, which the men rescued from the side of the river. The footmen will carry up your baths in a trice.’
Hannah looked around the apartment in satisfaction. The walls were papered with a heavy red paper. The great four-poster bed had dull red silk hangings. The fireplace was Queen Anne and as unlovely a piece of architecture as anything attributed to that poor lady’s name. It had a heavy overmantel that almost dwarfed the grate beneath. But there was a bright fire burning.
